fog

The red birds flock on branches, five or ten, and are scattered here and there.
A few in the bamboo, a few in the barren oak trees.

While the cat, as still as an ice cat sits with her paws melting the snow in little prints on the concrete steps and looking out to the woods.

There in the grey sky a hint of a spring to come.
The leaves of faint beige, of pale yellow, peek from the snow, melted into a bitter crust, under an off white grey sky.

Fog rolling up the hill, fills the sky, and meets the snow, and encloses the cat & me in soft white damp.